one: mississippi
a second is an interval/with which we gain precision/in reckoning a rate of fall/with unitary fission
two: mississippi
“back in two seconds,” we will say/and we are either liars/or time-dilators who hold sway/and scoff at all deniers
three: mississippi
among the rules of basketball/to stifle strife’s striation/if in the key too long you stall…/three-second violation.
if the earth does not suit you/you can adjust it
stand and your eyes are less tidally pulled/by the center of gravity near the core
and the earth will not notice but your eyes will be higher
jump and you push the earth away/land and your feet do a smackdown
change your lifestyle and you marginally add to or subtract from the ecological despoilage/and now we are getting somewhere
do you want to adjust the earth toward health? good!/get some garbage bags and fill them with your trash/but meticulously record item by item what you have in the bags
your camera can hold near-unlimited images so snap away for a week/and weigh the week’s worth of trash and then toss it away
multiply by 50 and you have a good idea/of how much of a garbage beast you are
now adjust your future
and you will adjust the earth
she will warm up to you
knapsack & bubble your gum/i.d. & knowledge in sum/the ballerina at barre/hints now as to which way you are
Fall, creating microbreeze
.
.
Land and flexdeform&squeeze
Unsqueeze with some dermabrasion
Break free for a sky invasion
.
Bend and wobble rise and rise
.
.
Elegantly reapprise
Repetition…briefly seize
[Return to the first line]
failure to bundle/is a crime punishable/by stiff, aching fingers/and violent shivering
a distant home is a beckoning ember/that bids your soul come and be thawed
our planet is a tilty rotisserie/with oscillating distribution of heat
and there are a handful of words with no vowels
tsk
psst
brrr
for the sauce for your next romance remember/longing is like cayenne pepper/a pinch is essential/but more than that is probably too much
put some sunset in there/and for reheating/hope for sunrise
ease and comfort are your béchamel
as for kisses/season to taste
It’s been a long time since I did illustrated acrostic poetry on a regular basis. I am rusty. But with more tries per week I will get better.
Work, Dash, and Load are all both nouns and verbs. And make of the Dash a symbol and it becomes a hyphen for Work-Load, a measure of effort-responsibility. We all have our Work-Loads to bear and dispatch; we are all workers. Even comedians work a crowd. 🙂
****
Work Dash Load
When there’s Endeavor there’re tales to tell
Of grind & frustration & Heaven and Hell–O
Revamping redressing on land & at sea
Keep promise & hope though there’s PTSD
****
PTSD stands for Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Everyone has had it, but true and faithful Soldiers of all callings, who care the most, are most susceptible. Let us all strive to help those who suffer thus.
Some have been forced to flee/From A to B or C/Uproot discard and be/A stateless refugee
My country ’tis of thee/Sweet opportunity/Is now just so much syrup/Unless you’re from East Europe/And snag a monied ranter/Who bribes a Genius Granter
My country ’tis of shame/Hype Uck Cry Seize the game/Of thee I mourn/This state of scorn/This hope so shorn/These souls forlorn
Well I’ll not flee I’ll fight/For justice truth and right/And fear thug-wielded hammer/The cave the cage the slammer
And should I be deported/For truths I have reported/Add to the cast-off legion/Banned from this once-great region
From whom I am among/I’ll learn another tongue/And other ways to live/And grow and get and give
Diasporas are mysteries/Creating new fresh histories/And new flags are unfurled/To greet an altered world
while we are praising lords and passing loot/a lute of ancient times is being plucked/and strummed and breezed and giving noise the boot/accompanying states of bliss and…muck’d
’tis played by fate as she three plays us round/she alternates as one plays tunes that hum/another pulls us puppets on the ground/another cuts our strings. we unbecome.
and then the trinity of sisters switch/for they•she need variety of spice/so player has a turn as karma’s bitch/and bitch turns executioner. not nice.
friend, as the lute plays, if you need reprieve
take pen or brush, and Make, and then Believe.
here is a loon alone/whose mate disapproved of the nesting site he’d chosen/and ended up with another/whose upscale site she loved
the window is closing/for him to seduce another female
and it is not in him/to fight another male/in an attempted eviction
so write what happy ending you will/at this early-spring frigid-lake slice of time/he is a loon alone/totally alone/but for the clicking pebbles in his belly
humans call the pebbles gastroliths/ because they aid digestion/of those vertebrates the loon swallows whole and headfirst
but this poet calls them pebblehenge/and uses poetic license/to arrange the pebbles accordingly
and then brings the loon a mate/who will drive him just the right amount of crazy/and he will give his utmost/to make their united life a waterfowl paradise
the reader may suspect/that the poet is not writing about loons anymore
the poet is uneager to explore this possibility/and so the poem ends/with a happy unalone loon/giving the reader a wink
One with Clay, Image and Text 